Under 500
by thedayyoufindoutwhy
Summary: A collection of Phan oneshots that are under 500 words. Danisnotonfire x AmazingPhil.
1. My Supernova

I remember falling in love with Phil.

It felt like a death sentence.

Every time I was in the same room with him, I would notice something different;

The way his tongue poked out of his mouth when he laughed;

The way his eyes sparkled when he was being clever;

The way he would move his hands to punctuate his words when he got excited;

The way he fell asleep; not quickly, or slowly, but caught somewhere in-between.

And when he talks to me his words weave in and out of me like music. Sometimes I can't even listen because I am too busy looking at his lips. But mostly I sit contentedly, listening to him talk to me in a way he will talk to no one else.

I fell in love with Phil quickly, all at once, all consumingly, so that the line between him and me became blurred to the point where I can no longer distinguish where my desires end and his begin.

My life was the night sky and Phil is my supernova. He burst into my life without warning and now I am blind to everything but him, but I can't bring myself to care.

I got my supernova. My once in a lifetime—if that.

And I wouldn't give him back for the world.


	2. Twenty-Three

I woke up this morning to an empty apartment.

Same as I do every morning.

Same as I think I always will.

There's this Dan-sized hole in me that I keep trying to fill with people and things, but they barely make any impact at all. It is taking up so much of me and I am drowning in it. I am drowning in the empty parts of myself.

He promised me forever, but I don't think he really understood what that meant. I don't think he got that all it takes is one man with a knife to take your forever and cut it up into a tiny increment of time.

Twenty-three minutes.

That's how long my forever lasted after Dan was stabbed.

I see that sliver of metal slicing through skin and muscle and that thin layer of fat that he was always so self-conscious about and I watch as it lands right where it will do the most damage. I see it every time I blink. Every time I close my eyes to go to sleep. I dream it.

I want it to stop.

I never knew there was so much blood in the human body. Five point six litres doesn't sound like a lot until you see it all at once, dark crimson, staining the asphalt as it runs in rivulets around you. Red like nothing else in the world. Red in the way it stains your hands. Red in the way it still sticks to them even months after you thought you got the last drop of it from your skin. I will never be rid of that blood.

I never understood death until I saw it. The way it works slowly and way too fast all at once. His suffering dragging on as it became more and more clear that he was not going to make it this time. And I prayed to a God I don't believe in for him to die so the agony on his face could be wiped away. And simultaneously all I wanted was time, which happened to be the currency I had run out of.

Of course he died. The weight of his cold, limp body forever pulling at me; wide brown eyes, vacant of all that was and will forever be Dan. These are the moments that define me now.

I've begun to mark my life in increments of twenty-three. It took Dan twenty-three minutes to die. Twenty-three minutes that stood between me and total happiness.

I can't breathe, knowing that every breath I take is not matched by one of his. Every moment I live without him feels wrong.

Everything hurts and nothing is okay.

I would give up my forever willingly for just twenty-three minutes with him.

That's what my life is worth now.

Twenty-three minutes with Dan.

The next morning, I woke up to an empty apartment.


	3. Latin Lessons

"Hey, Phil?"

"Yeah-huh?" he asks, from his space beside me on our bed.

"Did you know that in Latin 'phil' is the root for 'love'?"

"Really? Well in that case, I Phil you," he says with a goofy smile.

"You 'fill' me?" I ask him with a cheeky wink. He looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to understand the joke. "I think that means something else entirely." He gives me his best disappointed look and throws a pillow at my face.

"You don't deserve my love," he says.

"You don't mean that," I say slipping my laptop off of my lap and onto the floor so I can roll over and cuddle with him. He ignores me, continuing to scroll down tumblr. I press my lips against his jawbone. When that's not enough, I start gently attacking his neck, nipping and licking as I make my way to his shoulder. I place a hand gently against his chest, noting the way his muscles are contracted, like he's physically fighting to keep himself from moving.

"I love you, Phil," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his ear. And with that, his laptop is forgotten and he's straddling my hips.

"I love you, too, pervert."


	4. Numbers

He told me that he wanted to die because nobody loved him. And that was a really excellent opportunity for me to say, "I do, Phil," and show him just how much I meant it. And maybe it would have been a good idea to say those words. Or if not those, then three different ones.

Instead I told him there were plenty of people who loved him and I gave him subscriber counts and went on his Tumblr and showed him his followers and I opened up Twitter and showed those numbers too in the hopes of convincing him that there are so many people in the world love Phil, but I don't think I was very convincing. Actually, I know I wasn't very convincing.

When I woke up the next morning there was no Phil anymore. Instead, there was a bathtub full of blood and a pair of wide, vacant blue eyes staring lifelessly at me.

He didn't want me to show him numbers. He wanted to know there was someone in the world that loved him—Phil Michael Lester—all the good and the bad and the ugly. All the dark parts of himself that he kept hidden wanted to be loved as much as the persona he put on for the camera.

Maybe if I had said those three words, eight letters, two seconds worth of speech then he would be in my bed with me with his cold feet pressed against my shins and his head tucked under mine, but instead I'm sharing this bed with my empty memories because that's all that's left of him.

Everything is made worse with the weight of the knowledge that if I had been brave enough to face the world, I could have given Phil the strength to face it with me.


	5. A Letter

To the person I love most in the world,

I spent every night dreaming about you. And when the light would creep into my window, I burrowed myself under the covers in hopes that I wouldn't have to leave the imaginary comfort of your arms. Eventually, reality would sink back in and I would get up, where I would see you and that reality is almost as good as what I keep in my head.

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

Over the years, you've given me a list of things you hate about yourself.

You call yourself fat and all I can see is skin and bones.

You say you're face isn't angular enough and all I notice are high cheekbones and a straight nose and a gently curving jaw line that I secretly like to nuzzle into on the rare occasions you hug me.

You say you're eyes are dull brown but you don't see the way they spark when you talk, like you have a secret you're sharing only with me.

You think you sing poorly and I might just have to agree with you there, but as much as I complain I love it when you sing in the shower because hearing your voice in any form makes me smile.

You constantly play with your hair but I don't think you realize how perfect it is.

You fidget and tap nervously and you think it's annoying, but I've gotten used to the fact that you're restless to the point where I find it kind of calming as it lets me know you're nearby.

You hate a million things about yourself and I can't understand how that is possible. All I see when I look at you is perfection.

One day, I will get up the courage to give this to you and maybe you will be as madly in love with me as I am with you. But I don't think today is the day as right now I can hear you crying in the room next to mine because you have had your heart broken one too many times by people who think they know everything when they in fact know nothing.

Until then, I will be content with having the pleasure of being in love with someone as beautiful as you.

Phil.


	6. I Left Him

I had always put trust in my heart. And I had always believed that if you loved something hard enough then eventually everything would work itself out. And I believed that love was the strongest force in the world. I was pitifully and painfully wrong.

The first time Dan hit me, he was drunk and his girlfriend had just broken up with him and he needed to get all of that pain out and when the alcohol didn't work and I was standing in his way, I was the one who took the brunt. It left my cheek red for an hour and then it went away and he apologized then everything went back to normal.

The second time Dan hit me, he was drunk and his father had called him a fag after he told him he was bisexual and he was tired and angry and heartbroken and when the alcohol couldn't take away that pain of being a disappointment, he took it out on me because I was in the way. It left my right eye bruised for a couple days and he apologized then everything went back to normal.

The third time Dan hit me, he was drunk and I was drunk and it just sort of slipped out that I loved him and he got scared and angry and the alcohol made that worse and I was the cause so he took it out on me. It left me with a swollen jaw and a broken heart and he apologized the next morning with a kiss and an "I'm sorry" and things went to not normal, but something better.

The fourth time Dan hit me, he was drunk and I was crying because I was tired of him coming home drunk and he called me a pussy faggot because the alcohol had made my Dan slip away and he beat me and I had to go to A&E in the early hours of the morning by myself. It left me with two broken ribs and a day in the hospital and he came to me once the alcohol lost its' hold on him and kissed me and cried and said he was sorry and he'd stop drinking and things went back to normal.

The fifth time Dan hit me, he was sober. It was after a phone call with his parents. He told them that he had a boyfriend and that he would like for them to meet me and they said no. This time, when he pushed me down the stairs, I could not blame it on alcohol. And I no longer had the energy to blame myself for loving him because there is no world in which that is a crime. And I could not ignore my bleeding head and my still aching ribs and my healing heart and let them fade into nothingness like I had before. So before he could come to the hospital and tempt me back to him and his perfect lips and his perfect words, I left London.

I left him.


	7. Asleep

I will never get used to waking up next to Phil. Even in the middle of the night, after hours worth of more—_amorous _activities, when I am awoken from deep sleep by the sudden presence of a warm body crashing into mine. I don't really mind it though. I love the feeling of Phil pressed up against my side, his nose buried against my neck.

Tonight, I take this opportunity to really look at him. He looks completely different when he's asleep. The bright innocence tinged with the air of mischief is replaced by something sweeter, calmer. The light from London, still alive at 3 AM, illuminates his pale face to a surreal shade of white. I gently push a tuft of black hair off of his forehead, marveling at the smooth, alabaster skin; the way his dark eyelashes lay gently against his cheekbones; the gentle curvature of his lips.

I can't resist touching those lips, running my thumb gently over the soft, sensitive skin, trailing down his neck, marked with love-bites to the light dusting of hair on his chest. His heart pounds underneath my hand; solid, steady. His cerulean eyes flicker open, burning silver in the light from the window.

"What are you doing?" he mutters sleepily, a smile twisting his lips.

"I still can't believe you're mine." A faint pink blush colors his cheeks, the color intensifying as I run my fingers over the skin. I press a gentle, breathless kiss against his lips. Just enough to say, "I love you, I need you, never leave me".

"Go to sleep, by beautiful boy," Phil mutters, sleep weighing down his eyelids. I settle back into the pillows, allowing him to use my chest as a cushion. "I love you," he mutters into my skin as he drifts to sleep. With the weight of those words in my ears, I follow.


	8. Unrequited Love

Recently, Phil got himself a girlfriend. I've been trying to tell myself that it is good because Phil is happy and by extension that should make me happy. But my traitor heart keeps pounding to the beat of "it hurts" and it _does_. It feels like the part of me that loves Phil has grown too large to fit inside of me and it is pushing at my seams. Some nights, it takes all I have to keep from falling to my knees before him, crying that I love him more than anything else in the world.

Right now, they're sitting on the couch beside me, wrapped in each others' arms. I'm supposed to be watching a movie with them, but I can't focus. My mind is filled with images of Phil gently kissing the top of her head; Phil pulling her tighter against him when she let out a little shriek of surprise; her hands tangling gently in the hair at the base of Phil's neck.

I can't deny the spark in his eyes when he looks down at her. The way he smiles more often. The way I can no longer hear him crying late at night when he thinks I'm asleep. For that I am grateful. I just wish I could have been the one to make him feel that way.

But it's not like she has taken all of his pain away. It feels more as though she has lifted it from him and placed it solidly on my shoulders.

I watch again as she kisses his cheek, and the pain in my chest worsens.

_That is my entire life right there,_ I want to tell her as she holds him gently in my arms. _You are holding my entire life in your arms._

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to rip Phil from her arms and kiss him with all of the love that is clawing at the inside of my chest and never, _ever_ let go of him.

Instead, I sit silently beside him as everything I am turns to dust.


	9. Dying

**This actually came out at 750 words, but whatever. Also, I'm writing a full-length phanfic similar to this but completely different, and I was sort of oscillating between two different choices and I wrote this to sort of get it off my chest. Stay tuned**

The words "terminal cancer" meant nothing to me until they were connected to the words "I have." Those words meant so much more coming from Phil. The doctors told him it had gotten to the point where anything they do would only buy him months and these months would be so miserable that he'd wish for death thanks to the radiation therapy he'd have to endure.

So when Phil said the words "I have terminal cancer" followed by the words "I'm not getting treatment" I lost it. I ran away because that is what I do when I am hurt and confused. It is easier to blend anonymously into the mob of Londoners congesting the pavement than it is to be the best friend of a dying man.

I eventually wandered back home and he explained his situation and when I protested he out and said I really don't get a choice in the matter. Instead of arguing, we agreed to scrape our money together and travel as much of the world as we could.

We went first to Japan, because that's where we both wanted to go most. From there it was Australia and New Zealand. Then back to Europe to tour Italy, Greece and we were just on our way to Germany when Phil got worse. So much worse.

So we went back to England.

The doctor gave him days, two weeks at best.

For the first few days, we invited everyone we knew to come over and hang out. What nobody said was that it was essentially an invitation to say goodbye. I don't think any of us really wanted to think about it. PJ and Chris of course dropped by for a couple days and we played a lot of video games because Phil was too weak to do much else. A lot of our other friends dropped by, bringing food or movies as an unspoken condolence. Phil's brother came by too, said he was sorry he missed us when we went to visit the family. He and Phil had a long talk while I was picking up take-away. When I came back they were both crying.

We stopped having people over when Phil became too weak to get out of bed and had to pop morphine every couple hours to stop himself from screaming. On those days, I would sit by his side talking to him until he fell into a fitful sleep before heading to my own bed. One night, Phil grabbed my hand to stop me from leaving.

"Stay with me."

"Okay."

I slid into the bed beside him, pulled him on top of me and tangled our limbs together. I miss the way Phil smelled before he smelled like sickness. The solidity and warmth of his body in my arms—though much lighter than it should have been—was comforting. He started crying and I didn't know what to do, so I held him a little tighter and started rubbing circles into his back with my fingertips. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper.

"I know you don't want to hear this now. I probably should have said something earlier. I just need you to know that—I love you."

I started crying too because those were the words I had been waiting years and years to hear and it is so cruel that I don't get to hear then until he is dying. I am convinced that I was put on this earth to love Phil. I didn't think I could survive losing him. Even if I could I didn't particularly want to.

"I love you, too."

I wish that was the last thing I said to him, but it wasn't. He woke up the next morning like I had prayed he would and he asked me to get him some water and I said:

"Of course."

And when I came back, he was dead. Just like that.

Then the paramedics came. I called them. I must have, though I don't remember that. They loaded him onto a stretcher and I did not believe that he was dead until they lay the white sheet over his face.

And here I am now, standing on the sidewalk in front of my flat on the last morning Phil will ever draw a breath, _screaming_ as the paramedics try to hold me back because there's really nothing else to do. All I can think as the ambulance begins to drive away is:

"I wish it was me."


	10. Emptiness

Dan can't quite recall what it feels like to be whole. He can't remember very much beyond the vast emptiness that's carved itself a home in his belly and is nesting there. Dan_ embraces_ that emptiness because he doesn't _want_ to remember what feeling is like. He lets that emptiness wash over his head, wave after wave rushing down his throat, his nose, into his ears, blinding him so that the debilitating hurt that demands to be felt fades away until it is only a steady pulse.

A pulse that beats to the cadence of, _you're like a brother to me._

Phil said those words with the intention of conveying love, platonic as it may be, but love all the less. He did not expect the words to cut Dan open; to expose his organs, shining pink and vulnerable, to the world.

A slap to the face word hurt less. Anger would hurt less. Anything other than the, _I love you, but not like _that, as though Dan's big gay love for his best friend is _wrong_.

It breaks him to the point where the only way he can feel his hurt is through the sharp, pulsating cut marring his smooth white shoulder. The blood runs down in rivulets and Dan is both intrigued and nauseated by it. That is his blood, standing in place of feeling, dripping from his fingers and onto the clean tile floor.

When his stomach rolls, Dan does not have the strength to fight it. He falls forward, purging his body of sensation, letting the acid in his throat cleanse it of the words he cannot say. Lets the burning on his shoulder work against all that palpable pain that he cannot put a band-aid on.

Those wounds he cannot heal from.

His blood drips into the bile from his stomach, mixing with it and staining it red.

When Phil knocks on the door and asks, _are you alright_, Dan does not remember how to scream _NO_ so he lets his shaking fingers, still clinging onto a thin blade, do that for him in the form of another dripping red line. And the knocking does not stop, so neither do the cuts, tracing their way down his arm. He does it quickly, so that maybe, mercifully, he will pass out before the door opens and he has to face Phil with the bulk of his agony written so plainly onto his body in scarlet red.

When the door does finally open, he is lying in a puddle of his own blood and vomit. And maybe he hears Phil's choked sobbing, and maybe he sees him fall to his knees in front of him, and maybe he can feel freezing hands pressing to his face, but Dan doesn't want to _feel_.

He wants emptiness.


End file.
